Trial of Fire (37 page)

Finnlay would have danced with joy, but he knew Andrew wouldn’t appreciate it. Instead, he crept over to the boy and knelt beside him. Carefully, he laid a hand on Andrew’s shoulder, giving it a friendly squeeze, as he had done a thousand times over the years. The only words he spoke were, ‘That’s it, Andrew, relax. Just sleep. Don’t worry about anything. Just relax.’

It took a little time, but slowly the glow subsided, and by the time Finnlay got back into bed, Andrew once more appeared to be an ordinary boy not far off turning fifteen. A boy who had a powerful sorcerer for a father, another powerful sorcerer for a mother – who some believed to be the incarnation of the goddess – and who would one day assume the throne of his ancestors. A very ordinary boy who must at last be coming into his powers. This
had
to be it, didn’t it?

Finnlay went to sleep with a smile on his face.

*

And woke up to rain pouring down on his face, icy needles of water, and swearing. He would have buried his head and simply suffered it, but it was
morning and there was somebody standing in front of him who hadn’t been there last night.

‘Micah?’

‘None other.’

With a faint groan, Finnlay rolled to his feet, clapping Micah on the shoulder in welcome. ‘It’s good to see you’re still in one piece. We were worried. And where’s Robert?’

Micah blinked once then turned so Finnlay could see. There was his brother, seated by the fire, beneath the small shelter they’d made the day before, a cup of brew in one hand, a piece of pie in the other, regaling the sentries with outrageous stories of his travels. Laughter filled the camp, waking everybody, driving away the rain.

The last ten years might never have happened.

‘Don’t be fooled,’ Micah murmured when Finnlay would have gone forward. ‘He was captured and tortured. I don’t know how his body is healing, but it is. As for his mind—’

A shiver of icy fear rattled down Finnlay’s back. ‘He looks fine.’

‘Yes,’ Micah said. ‘He does
look
fine. Come on. I’m hungry.’

‘Again.’

Hard rain spattered against the window; the constant noise made Kenrick’s head hurt, but since Rayve was standing before him with his sword raised, Kenrick could only respond in kind. As he’d been taught, he felt the power flow from the pit of his stomach, out through his limbs, into the blade he held. Forgetting all he had learned about conventional combat, he lifted the sword and swung hard and fast, clashing against the other blade in a flash that could have been mistaken for lightning.

They stayed like that, hilt against hilt, Kenrick holding the power where it needed to be, concentrating to make it flow evenly, watching out for some other move against him, trying to keep his balance against the answering force of Rayve’s power, trying to—

‘Breathe, my lord. You must breathe or you will fall over.’

Ah, breathing – he had forgotten again. With his head spinning and his chest aching, Kenrick tried to ease air into himself, but it upset his entire balance and everything fell apart. A grinding noise came from somewhere; there was another flash and he was thrown back, stumbling to land on the ground – in about the same place he’d landed the last dozen times.

‘Damn it!’ he swore again, only this time he didn’t bother getting up. His head hurt too much and this whole thing was starting to really annoy him. Was Rayve a bad teacher, or he a bad student? All that really mattered to him was that he learn, and quickly, but it wasn’t happening anywhere near quickly enough.

Rayve stood in the same place, though his sword was now sheathed. ‘You are improving, my lord. If you can remember to breathe, you will find your stamina will treble.’

‘But I
can’t
remember to breathe,’ Kenrick said, tossing his sword away and watching it slide across the cold tiled floor, spinning slightly until it stopped short of the fireplace, pointing towards the door.

‘A little more practice, my lord. That’s all you need.’ Rayve always called him ‘my lord’, as though acknowledging the crown he wore by calling him Sire would be too much.

‘I’m sick of practising. We practise every day, morning and night, and
I’m weary of it.’ He winced as another splat of rain hit the glass and pressed his thumbs to his temples. With every practice came this pain, and it got worse every day. Sometimes he could dull it with a little sweet wine, but that just slowed him down when they were practising sword work, defeating the purpose.

He heard Rayve walking away from him and he scrambled to his feet. ‘Wait!’

The young Malachi turned, his face as impassive and emotionless as always. ‘If you no longer wish to learn, then I will return to my people.’

‘I do want to learn, but that doesn’t mean I’m not sick of it. And that doesn’t mean I’ve given you leave to go.’

Rayve looked at him as though daring Kenrick to stop him.

‘You’ll go when I say you go,’ Kenrick growled, but even he could hear the weakness in words that needed to be repeated like that.

For some reason, however, Rayve did not laugh at him. ‘My lord, you are trying to learn in a few weeks what we take years to master. That’s why you experience pain. To lose the pain means you must stop practising.’

‘But I
have
to practise!’ Kenrick bellowed, then winced again as his own volume was echoed around the room at him. ‘I have to,’ he added in a whisper. With a sigh, he turned and made for the fireplace, and the table beside it. The fire chased away the cold of the morning; the wine softened the headache. ‘Tell me,’ Kenrick went on as he sank into a soft-covered chair, resting his head against the back, ‘tell me about the D’Azzir.’

He watched the young Malachi debating with himself, then waved his hand at a chair. ‘Sit. Tell me about the D’Azzir and DeMassey.’

Rayve sat on a chair opposite, carefully moving his sword out of the way. Even so, he sat upright and rigid, as though to allow himself to be comfortable was another form of weakness. The Baron DeMassey had been a hard master.

‘The D’Azzir were always the army of the Cabal,’ he began quietly, looking not at Kenrick, but at a spot on the wall behind him. ‘In the beginning, they were merely soldiers, skilled in the use of weapons, whereas the other Cabal were artists or farmers, priests or blacksmiths. But over hundreds of years, the Cabal practised manual labour less and less, instead trading their expertise for gold. The Cabal became very wealthy, but the demands on the D’Azzir increased as a result. Palaces were often attacked, and traders travelled with armed guards. The Cabal needed some means to ensure their survival which could never be challenged by any of the Princes they aided. So the D’Azzir began to develop skills which blended sorcery and sword fighting. Within twenty years, they had cultivated such a
reputation as to prevent any further attacks on Palaces, and they were the finest warriors anywhere.’

Kenrick could hear the pride in the young man’s voice, felt a ripple of it himself. Weren’t these, after all, his ancestors as well?

‘It was a D’Azzir who first developed the process called
Folinet aro Shar.
’

‘What’s that?’ Kenrick perked up and watched Rayve closely.

‘It’s the Feeding Blood. It was originally developed so a D’Azzir could use the blood of a vanquished foe to strengthen himself, and help heal his wounds. It was to be used only in extreme circumstances and only in battle.’

‘But now Nash uses it to regenerate.’

‘Yes, or a form of it. What he does takes days rather than minutes, and he uses—’

‘The blood of sorcerers,’ Kenrick interposed.
He’d
used such blood, to heal his scars, and would have used the blood of the Douglas girl if he’d had the chance. He knew so little about it, but it was obvious that the stronger the sorcerer, the greater the regeneration. ‘Tell me about Nash and DeMassey.’

‘They were enemies,’ he said baldly.

Kenrick laughed a little. ‘Does Nash have friends?’

‘DeMassey did – still does.’

‘So how did they work together if they were enemies?’

‘Their goals were the same, or so the Baron thought. They used each other to further those goals, but in recent years …’

‘What?’ Kenrick’s gaze narrowed. There was a story here and he needed to hear it.

‘The Lady Valena – my master loved her, and we believe she loved him. He would often leave and visit her, when Nash was unlikely to notice. We believe that somehow the Lady Valena was involved in my master’s death.’

Kenrick remembered Valena; she had shared his father’s bed, she had been his constant companion; he remembered how she would sometimes whisper in a corner with Nash. But his father had been Bonded to Nash, and unable to make any real choices of his own. And what kind of woman would sleep with a man on the orders of another?

Then he asked, ‘But you said DeMassey died here.’

‘He did – but I think he did so to protect her.’

‘Do you think he succeeded?’

Rayve’s eyes dropped to his hands. ‘We will avenge my master and the Lady Valena if we must. If she is with Nash, there is nothing we can to do free her. She can only free herself.’

Kenrick snorted at that, then, steeling himself against the response, said, ‘So do you know how to find out when Nash will return to Marsay?’

There was a long silence as Rayve rose from his chair. He turned, his hand lingering on the back of the seat, then said, ‘He has been seen returning to Ransem Castle. I think it may only be days before he returns here.’

‘And when he does?’

There was no expression on the young Malachi’s face. Instead, he walked towards the door, saying quietly, ‘Good day, my lord.’ And then he was gone, with only the echo of his hatred filling the corners of the room.

*

‘I need to know what you are going to do, Osbert.’ Godfrey put his hands on his hips and turned to look out the window, into the cloister below, where he wished he was now. But they couldn’t have this conversation in the open air, at least, not in this city, not when the subject was treason.

‘Why must I decide now? Do you know something?’

Godfrey groaned. ‘Why must you persist with this reckless position? We are already damned, you and I. One day Nash will return and he’ll remember what I did and assume you rescued me.’

‘Then surely that means you should leave the city?’

‘And leave the Church and my brothers at a time like this – and when I have been placed in the position of Bishop, with so much faith?’ Godfrey studied the man he sometimes despaired of. Osbert sat in a chair with his legs crossed, his robes draped elegantly, the very image of a man with few cares. But the image died on inspection of his eyes, where the constant fear he lived with was imprinted. It was to that fear that Godfrey made his plea. ‘You
must
decide now if you hope to carry out any constructive acts. You need to be planning what you will do, so you will have time to make provision.’

‘Again I ask, do you know something?’

‘I know that one day – whether it be tomorrow or next year – there will be a war between Robert Douglas and Kenrick. Before that day, you need to decide which side you will fight on. And don’t dream of saying the winning side or I will have you thrown into the street!’ Osbert began to chuckle as Godfrey added, ‘If you think I’m joking—’

Osbert’s smile shifted only a little. ‘Godfrey, just as you cannot rule the conscience of every priest in your flock—’

‘Would that I could.’

‘So I cannot rule the minds of all my Guildesmen. My predecessor, Vaughn, had their hearts, and he whipped up their loyalty with a hatred of sorcery. Since his disappearance, and Kenrick’s ascension, Guildesmen everywhere have voiced their confusion. I don’t have answers for them. I can’t openly declare against Kenrick, and yet that’s what they want me to do. I don’t have Vaughn’s personality, his flare for the dramatic—’

‘His evil and twisted imagination.’

Osbert stood before him, his voice dropping. ‘I can’t lead them where they don’t want to go.’

‘But that’s exactly what you
must
do. At the very least, you should prepare your soldiers.’

‘So they can be used
against
your cause?’

Godfrey looked away, frowning. This argument always ended the same way. ‘You’re going to run out of time one day, Osbert – and I won’t be there to help you wrestle with your conscience.’

‘Well, if you’re right and Nash comes for us both, that day’s not so far away then, is it?’

‘Perhaps.’ Godfrey went to his desk and picked up a letter he’d received that morning. It had made him lose his appetite. ‘You know the village of Fenlock?’

‘No,’ Osbert said as he returned to his seat. ‘Should I?

‘It stands not far from the ruins of the castle of Elita, and has always been loyal to the Earls of Elita. In the village there’s a monastery which, until the Guilde takeover of hospice work, ministered to the needs of the community and environs. Over the last years, obviously, the number of monks has decreased – but in the last six months or so, the numbers have more than doubled.’

Osbert raised his eyebrows, though he did not see the significance. Godfrey continued, his eyes dancing over the paper in his hand, picking up phrases here and there, ‘It seems there have been a number of miraculous happenings at the ruins of Elita: mysterious lights at night, ghostly figures seen moving about, faces which appear and vanish, voices heard, footprints appearing in the snow.’

With a start, Osbert was on his feet again, all pretence of carefreeness now gone. ‘But you yourself said you once met with Douglas and McCauly and the others there. Surely these are just—’

‘And about a week ago, one of the monks himself saw a figure on the ridge overlooking the castle. He saw lightning flickering from the figure’s hands, and then a great flash of light in the sky overhead.’ Godfrey ignored Osbert’s growing agitation and went on, ‘Then there are the miracles. Barren women who have conceived, a blind child now sighted, fevers cured, wounds healed. One story after another, and I know, deep in my heart, Osbert, that this is merely the beginning.’